


Dented Steel

by knowtheway



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Mind Control, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24634024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowtheway/pseuds/knowtheway
Summary: When she got her control returned to her by Hilda and Sabrina, the anger is what came through first. It had festered and boiled over under that insipid, brainless persona that it practically burst out of her the moment she was set free. And the anger is all she could remember for a while. The humiliating tasks he made her do, the ridiculous outfits he made her wear, the way he hushed her among “important” men and she thanked him for it, how he tried to murder her whole family so that she’d have to watch helplessly with a smile on her face as it happened.She still remembers the anger, there’s no doubt about that. But she’s been remembering more.
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 23
Kudos: 43





	Dented Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of messy, complicated, and unhealthy emotions in this one. Hella emo. Not to be replicated in real life ever. (Also, not my best writing, full warning.) Okay, here we go!

The breeze from the pleasantly cool night air runs over her skin and the smell of the birch trees coming into summer bloom allows her a fleeting moment of peace out alone on the Spellman porch.

This has always been her routine on sleepless nights - look over Hilda to make certain that daft grin is plastered on her sweet sister’s face, so that she can take comfort in knowing that she is safe and happy in her dreams, unlike the world they currently live (in which Zelda is becoming increasingly scared she cannot protect her from). After that, she wanders the house, checks in on her niece and nephew to ensure the propensity for poor sleep isn’t a genetic trait (they are both perfectly still in slumber, praise Satan), whispers a small protective prayer over them both, and then makes her way down into the kitchen for whatever biscuits Hilda’s most recently baked and a glass of whiskey to dunk them in. Then she heads outside, sits in her spot - _her_ chair, the one Sabrina and Ambrose always took great delight in competing who could sneak onto it most without being caught (she knew every time) - and lets her racing mind take her wherever it wants to go.

Tonight - like most recent nights - it takes her back to her brief, though highly eventful marriage, and her hideous husband who she tells herself every minute that she loathes with every fiber of her being. Except that isn’t altogether true. And she loathes that it isn’t. The truth is, there is one small fiber - a very loose thread - that keeps her up on nights like these.

She told Sabrina and Hilda she had been aware of every second, but that had not been entirely correct. She was aware for most it, yes - but other times she surely must have drifted away into some rosy sweet haze because it’s been clearing little by little in the aftermath of being awakened.

When she got her control returned to her by Hilda and Sabrina, the anger is what came through first. It had festered and raged under that insipid, brainless persona that it practically burst out of her the moment she was set free. And the anger is all she could remember for a while. The humiliating tasks he made her do, the ridiculous outfits he made her wear, the way he hushed her among “important” men and she thanked him for it, how he tried to murder her whole family so that she’d have to watch helplessly with a smile on her face as it happened.

She still remembers the anger, there’s no doubt about that. But she’s been remembering more.

In Rome, it was a routine almost immediately that upon his arrival back to their hotel each night, she would be waiting for him, ready with his favorite glass of liquor to take his coat and then rub his shoulders as he eased into an armchair. They’d eat dinner, he’d talk to her (at her) as if she were at all able to respond with more than a “yes, husband” “how clever, husband” “you are a genius, husband,” and then he would take her to bed where he released his tension against the slopes and curves of her body and she cursed him silently most of all.

But one night was different. He returned early, and so she hadn’t been ready at the door, but it had seemed there was no need for her normal drink service. He was stumbling over himself and laughing like a drunken fool. His braces hung loose around his waistband and his jacket was tossed carelessly to the floor. Sloppily, he grabbed a glass from the liquor cabinet, poured himself what must have been his fifth or so scotch that evening, and he hummed pleasantly to himself as she stayed peering at him in uncertainty through the doorway.

“Zelda, dear-est!” he called in a sing-song voice and she took a sharp inhale of breath.

She didn’t move at first, but eventually his bleary eyes locked on her and he swung his arms up wide in a grand celebratory gesture. “There she is, my _adoring wife_! Come to me, my love.”

She hesitantly approached him (the Caligari spell afforded her some slivers of self-preservation at times), watching with unease as a manic delight danced behind his eyes.

“Did you have a good day, husband?” she said softly as he took her in his arms, drink spilling slightly on her shoulder.

He smiled wider and lifted her chin up so he could look in her eyes, “ _Oh_ yes,” he gave an exaggerated nod, his speech slightly slurred as he swayed her a little. “Zelda, my _darling_ , my _wife_ ,” he gripped her waist tighter and rested his forehead on hers with a sigh, “You’ve no idea the glorious future your husband has been securing for you. For _us_. We are soon to be saturated in far more luxury than drink,” he looked at his glass and then hiccuped with a gleeful giggle.

“Fau-... husband, whatever do you mean?” her heart pounded hard in her chest, but her face was serene and sweet as flower.

“Mmm,” he sighed, nuzzling his face into her neck and smelling her hair. “Dance with me, darling. Dance with me and I’ll tell you.”

“Of course, husband,” she whispered, tentatively anchoring her hands up to his shoulders as he swilled down the last of his drink and set the empty glass aside.

At first, he had just clumsily swayed and rocked her as he kissed at her neck and shoulder. This went on for a few minutes before she finally decided to chance her courage, saying in a small voice, “What were you going to tell me, darling?”

As if pulled back from the edge of sleep, he lifted his head and smiled at her with heavy-lidded eyes, reaching his hand up to stroke her hair. “You’re so beautiful, my Zelda, do you know that? The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen... “

“Husband... “ she whispered patiently. “You said you had news.”

He smiled like a small child with an exciting secret, kissed her once, and then said quietly, “Do you remember after Edward died,” her heart sank a little at the sound of her brother’s name, “how the council appointed me as high priest within days?”

How on Earth could she forget. She was holding her niece in her arms and hugged the babe so tight into her chest upon hearing the news that Sabrina wiggled and fussed in discomfort. It was all it took to break her, crumpling to the floor and rubbing Sabrina’s back soothingly as she barely kept herself together. It was the moment Edward’s death became real. The finality that his office, his title, his life... now belonged to another.

“Yes, I remember,” she said and she was surprised to hear a semblance of herself as she did so.

“You were so angry with me,” he staggered against her a little with a goofy smile and she let out a shaky breath. Yes, she remembered that night of frenzied hate sex, too. “But it’s only because you couldn’t see what he’d done to you... “

Anxiety, confusion, and heartache threatened to tear her apart inside, but on the outside she huffed out a small, sweet laugh and said, “Husband, I don’t know what you mean.”

He pouted in sympathy at her, leaning his weight further into her, and cupping her face gently, “I know you don’t. Even when I tried to tell you... to show you... you never heard me,” a small flash of sadness swept over his face and he pulled her closer to him. “It pained me to see you used so, Zelda.”

He was not making a single shred of sense, and she had almost decided the drink had consumed all possibility of rational thought from him for the night, but then he shook his head as if to pull himself back together and smiled when he looked at her again. “Edward would have seen you be a servant for the rest of your days, but you deserved...you  _deserve_ to be a Queen. Now, you shall.”

She gathered she was supposed to be elated by this news, so her body responded with an adoring look of delight, but inside she was plainly frightened. Being a Queen in their religion wasn’t always a good thing, after all.

“It will be as it was always meant to be - you and I,” he brushed his nose against hers, his lips lightly passing over hers as she began to tremble. “The Dark Lord has given The Council vision and clarity to appoint me as the replacement for the Anti-Pope.”

Everything stopped when he said those words. They crashed within her, so violent and loud, that all she could hear for several moments was the high-pitched buzz of silence.

She was sure she had said something to the effect “oh! husband!” but not a single piece of herself was in it. She thought of all he’d managed to do as high priest - and how the power that came with the title of Anti-Pope was surely dangerous in his hands.

But his hands had also been so gentle on her face, stroking through her hair, and he looked at her as if he had been gifting his victory, in part, to her. Still drunk off his arse, he fumbled a bit when he guided her towards the nearest wall - and as he kissed his way down her neck and across her chest, he continued murmuring into her skin.

“All the time that was stolen from us, all the glory... it’s being returned to us ten fold, my dearest,” his hands quickly undid the zip of her dress, of his trousers, removing the rest of her clothes, alternating between a quiet laugh and a soft moan against her skin as he did so.

Before she knew it, she was straddled over his hips, pressed up against the wall, and he was kissing her deeply, moaning promises of their future to her.

Hooking his arm under one of her legs, he entered her slowly. She gasped, clutching his shoulders, and let her mind start drifting away - willing herself to find some way out of this situation, to save her family and all the covens of darkness from the tyranny that was surely descending upon them all.

“This was what you always wanted, isn’t it?” he asked, thrusting into her in long, savoring strokes, his breath warm against her neck.

Her focus snapped back instantly. Of course he would insist on her being present for this generous devotion of pleasure to his sweet, simple-minded wife.But what the heaven was he talking about now.

“‘Wanted,’ husband?” she asked.

“This was what I always wanted to give you... “ he grunted softly as he slightly shifted his angle.

Oh, fucking hell, men were absolutely useless at the best of times, never mind when they when drunk. Could he not just make some bloody sense for one second?

“Faustus... “ she whispered pleadingly, and the use of his name made him still. With shallow breaths, he looked up into her eyes and she gasped softly at the earnestness of his gaze.

He rested a hand upon where he collarbone met her neck, the other tugging her hips closer against him. A moment of quiet hung heavy between them and then he spoke. “I _adore_ you. I always have. You know that, don’t you?”

Her heart hammered in her chest and despite her sugary sweet exterior and the tug of the smile on her lips, she felt tears start to prick at her eyes. How could he say such a thing... how could he _adore_ her, but lock everything that made her who she was away?

“Tell me you do... “ he whispered. It was a question, not a command, but the spell wouldn’t have had her answer any other way...

“Yes, husband,” she said and she saw his lip quiver and the glassiness of his eyes from the drink turn to something else. Something very sad and pathetic and hurt.

“You adore me, too, don’t you Zelda?” his hips began moving again slowly and his hand slid up to cup her cheek, firm enough to be on the edge of frightening.

He had to know it was all a lie. He had to know she had no choice, but to say yes, so why was he even asking.

“Of course, husband,” she said low, but inside she was screaming in agony, confusion, and anger.

He made a small noise as if he were wounded. His thrusts sped up, his grip tightened, and tears fell from both their eyes for different reasons. “You mean it, you truly mean it. Tell me you do... _promise me you do_... “ he strained the words out with a mixture of fury, pleading, and pain.

“Yes! I promise!” she gasped and he yelled out in a strangled cry as he released himself inside her.

Once he finished, he kept her pinned against the wall and she shook from the warring emotions within her. Her body was demanding she thank him, as any good wife should, but her mind was recoiling with every ounce of strength she had left. When she finally exhausted herself and let the tide pull her back under, she noticed he was shaking, too - violently shuddering as his arms wrapped firmly around her. His face was buried in her hair and she realized he was... he was  _sobbing_ .

In their two centuries of knowing each other, she had seen him cry perhaps a handful of times, but this was even more than that. He was almost _wailing_ and she never felt more startled and confused.

She was so incredibly lost at his behavior. It scared her more than anything because she didn’t understand it. They had always operated on the familiar ground of cunning and deceit and this was just far too raw and different. He held her so hard, so close, but she had never felt further away from him.

But peculiarly, she clung back to him then, if only because she didn’t know what else to do - because she was stunned and shaken and needed comfort, too. And her perplexing bastard of a husband was the oldest, most familiar friend she had right now to seek it in.

He held onto her for quite some time, and she silently let her own tears fall on his shoulder as she stroked the hair at the nape of his neck.

When he finally disentangled himself, he silently carried her to their marital bed and they slept until dawn without another word.

He never acted as such again and she never discussed it with anyone after her awakening from the enchantment. But more than anything else in their curséd marriage, that day haunted her.

Back on the Spellman porch, she’s finishing up her glass of liquor and setting the empty biscuit tin aside. As much as she’s tried to fight it, her jaw is clenched and angry tears are welling in her eyes.

What he said about Edward... being ‘happy to see her a servant’... what nonsense was he talking about? Would she ever even know now? And of course... _of course_ he waited until she couldn’t say no, until she couldn’t refuse for him  to confess... _anything_ to her. When he could’ve done so several mortal lifetimes ago and it would’ve... well, it might have been different.

Bastard. _Coward_. She truly hates him. 

Except she doesn’t. And she hates that, too.

The tears are flowing steady down her face now and the very beginning of the sunrise has just hit the horizon. Hilda will wake soon and be worrying about in the kitchen to make some new lavish breakfast no one asked for (but she’ll eat it, anyway). So she grabs her empty glass and the biscuit tin, swipes away the remnants of her pain from her face, and heads inside.

She sometimes thinks she might one day discuss it with Hilda, that it might help her to reconcile it and understand... do her some good... Then again, she always has the night, the porch, and her decanter of whiskey to lean on.

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I was in my feelings and thought “hey, I know, let’s write a whole ass tragedy - that’ll sort us.” 
> 
> As always, there’s nothing ~*okay*~ or ~*acceptable*~ about any of this, but that’s why fiction is great, yeah? Because we can all understand where the line gets drawn of how people treat each other vs. how people SHOULD treat each other, right? Yes? Okay, swell. Thanks for reading! Love you all and hope you’re well! xx


End file.
